A Certain Wolfish Charm (14 page)

   She gritted her teeth. There was no way to graciously refuse his hand.

   Prisca put her hand in Simon's. "Oh, Your Grace, thank you. That was such a trying ride. I do need a breath of fresh air."

   Simon glared at Prisca but helped her from the coach, leaving Lily to accept Will's outstretched arm. She'd never been so grateful to see someone… Well, there were other times she'd been more grateful, but she pushed those from her mind.

   Will led her inside a large Georgian building nearly overflowing with men of all shapes and sizes. "Don't be too hard on him," Will said softly.

   Lily's eyes flashed to his. "You have no idea what he asked of me."

   "I have a fairly good guess. I know how his mind works."

   Lily ignored that last bit and looked around her. The assembly room wasn't terribly large, and there was very little room to move about. "I never attend balls," she admitted. "But I'd always heard there were very few gentlemen to go around." That was certainly not the case here. At least two men for every female in attendance.

   Will heaved a sigh. "I'd imagine your new dearest friend had a hand in it."

   Lily glanced in front of them to see Prisca admiring the turnout with a glow in her eyes. How had she managed this? Lily was in awe. "Well, she did say she intended to hunt for her own husband here."

   Will stopped in his tracks, an instant grimace appeared on his face. "She said what?"

   Lily looked up at Will. Something did seem to be going on between the two of them. "What is the history between the two of you?" she asked.

   He simply shrugged. "She wants more than I could

ever give her." He looked away nervously, as though she might uncover some deep, dark secret if he actually met her eyes.

   "That seems to be a theme amongst the Westfield men."

   "You don't understand—" Will started.

   But she cut him off with a cutting glance. "It seems as though I've heard that once tonight already, doesn't it? Pardon me, but I didn't believe it then, and I don't believe it now."

Prisca took it upon herself to act as Lily's matchmaker for the night, arranging introductions, filling her dance card, and keeping Blackmoor at bay. She made certain Lily never missed a dance, even if she had to prod her brothers to fill the space. Prisca was delighted to see Lily embrace all the attention lavished upon her and accept all the invitations. By all appearances, Lily was having a grand time, though Prisca knew that the poor dear's heart was breaking.

   Having dealt with a Westfield man of her very own, she had a good idea of what Lily was going through. She had to admit she felt a certain sense of satisfaction as she watched Simon pouting among the fronds of the plants that hugged the outer edges of the ballroom.

   His eyes never left Lily, and every time the dance changed, Simon made to approach her. But someone else always got there first, sweeping her back onto the dance floor. He became more and more surly as the night went on, barking at anyone who dared to speak to him.

   Prisca watched as Mrs. Bostic, the local vicar's wife, made her way across the ballroom. She was approaching Simon of all people? Then inspiration struck. Prisca knew how to solve this problem for Lily.

   She edged around the ballroom until she stood near Simon. But he disregarded her presence, as though she was inconsequential. She would show him inconsequential.

   "Mrs. Bostic," Prisca called to the woman. She turned and walked toward Prisca, her hands outstretched. "How wonderful it is to see you."

   The woman returned the greeting. "Quite a lovely event, isn't it? Such a turnout," she remarked absently as she turned to stand between Prisca and Simon.

   "Oh, it's indeed lovely," Prisca smiled. "It looks as though my new friend Miss Rutledge is having a grand time." She pointed to the dance floor. She smiled as she noticed the slight tilt of Simon's head as he heard Lily's name.

   "Who is the gel, Miss Hawthorne? I don't believe we have met." She tapped her fan against her hand, searching her memory.

   "Miss Rutledge has been staying at Westfield Hall. Her nephew, the Earl of Maberley, is the duke's ward. She brought him for a visit." Simon stepped closer, almost imperceptibly, but not quite.

   "She has certainly captured everyone's attention, hasn't she?"

   Prisca nodded. "Indeed, I know His Grace is awfully fond of her."

   This made the older woman frown, and Prisca had to bite back a smile. After all, the Duke of Blackmoor was rarely fond of
respectable girls. "Is her chaperone here?
" Mrs. Bostic asked. "I should like to introduce myself."

   Prisca forced herself to laugh delicately. "She doesn't have a chaperone, Mrs. Bostic. She came here this evening with my brothers and me."

   Ms. Bostic's eyes narrowed. "But I thought you said she has been
residing
with the duke for a short time?"

   "Yes, she has," Prisca replied, finding it difficult to keep a straight face as Will stepped up to her side. Oh, how delicious. The vicar's wife was fully enthralled in the tale of Lily's whereabouts.

   Mrs. Bostic pursed her lips together in such a tight line that a ring of white showed around them. "That is not at all proper."

   Prisca lowered her voice and said, "I wasn't certain it was, either. But Lily is firmly on the shelf. So, who am I to judge?"

   Mrs. Bostic fidgeted nervously. "I must go and find Mr. Bostic, dear. It was delightful to see you." The woman stomped off, scowling at Simon. He didn't even notice, poor man, as he was too engrossed in watching Darius spin Lily around the dance floor.

   "What are you doing?" Will hissed in her ear as Mrs. Bostic vanished into the crowd. "That termagant will show up on Simon's doorstep tomorrow demanding one of us marry Lily."

   Prisca shrugged, not daring to make eye contact. "Come now, William, you and I both know
you're
not the marrying sort."

   "That's hardly the point," he growled. "What gives you the right to meddle in Lily's life?"

   "Knowing you," she answered. Slowly she focused her eyes on him. She did wish that her heart didn't still flutter whenever he was near. "I've been in Lily's position, and I wish someone had been looking out for me."

   "You think setting
Mrs. Bostic
on Lily is looking out for her?"

   Prisca nodded her head. "Yes. I'm forcing Blackmoor's hand.
He
won't be able to simply turn his back on her and pretend she never existed."

   Will closed his eyes, and she could tell he was reining in his temper. "Prissy, I didn't—"

   "Don't call me that," she cut him off. Then she squared her shoulders and tossed her head back, as if she didn't care at all what he thought. "Do excuse me. This dance, I believe, is Mr. Fielding's."

Lily had expected the ball to be a sedate affair. But it was far from that. As soon as she entered the assembly hall, she found herself besieged by men. They came in all shapes and sizes, from tall to short, from thin to rotund, from young to old. But as she danced with them one by one, she realized sadly that they were after one thing, her dowry. Not a single one of them was interested in her as a person.

   It was a painful realization to make. Here she was at a ball full of eligible men, and the only thing they were interested in was a gift Simon had given to her. It seemed quite ironic that she was trying to lure a husband to the altar with a gift from the man she loved.

   Oh, goodness! Love? As she twirled about the floor, she realized slowly that she did love him. She loved him despite his temper. She loved him despite his reputation. She loved him despite the fact that he obviously didn't love her back.

   He'd spent the entire night glowering at her. As she'd been swept from one dance to another, his scowl had grown larger and larger. She only hoped he wasn't trying to decide which man would be right for her. That would add insult to injury if he thought, by providing her dowry, he could also have some decision-making power in her choice of a husband.

   Of course he wouldn't think that. She was a grown woman after all, responsible only to herself. She had no family to speak of, aside from Oliver, and she was quite capable of making her own decision about a husband.

   She'd learned quite a bit about the men who were present as they danced. Many of them appeared to be fortune hunters. One even went so far as to mention his gambling debts. Only a few showed any interest in her as a person. Yet, even with those few, she still found herself very happy when the dances ended so that she could take a moment to rest. But that didn't seem very likely.

   Lily wanted nothing more than to retreat to the retiring room so she could wipe her moist brow in peace. She wanted to sit down, take her slippers off, and stretch her toes. She wanted to take the smile off her face for just a moment, because maintaining the tilt at the corners was becoming quite painful.

   Just when she thought she might have an opportunity to slip away, Emory Hawthorne approached her. "May I steal you away from your many admirers, Miss Rutledge? So that we can take a turn about the floor?"

   Lily sighed. "Of course you may, Mr. Hawthorne." Perhaps he saw the pain in her face because his eyebrows scrunched together in a frown.

   "Are you quite all right, Miss Rutledge?"

   "To tell the truth, I am a bit exhausted," she groaned, flexing her toes inside her slipper.

   "Then I have just the thing, Miss Rutledge," he said, offering his arm. She took it tentatively.

   "Don't worry. I won't make you walk far." His dark eyes danced at her.

   "Promise?"

   "On my honor," he said as he covered his heart with his hand.

   "I pray that I will find a man who has some," Lily mumbled.

   Mr. Hawthorne laughed out loud, a rich sound that warmed her heart.

   He placed a hand at her back to gently prod her through a set of double doors. He led down a winding path into a vast garden lined with hedgerows. The wind picked up the tendrils of hair at her neckline and instantly cooled her.

   "Nice, isn't it?" he asked as she lifted her face to the breeze.

   She sighed with pleasure. "Very."

   He pointed out a bench and encouraged her to sit, then joined her. Lily relaxed, completely at ease with this man who'd saved her from hordes of moneyhungry men.

   "Thank you so much," she said. "This is just what I needed, Mr. Hawthorne."

   "Emory. Please." He smiled at her. She simply nodded.

   "I kept waiting for Blackmoor to sweep in and steal you away from those who kept seeking your attention."

   Lily shook her head. "He doesn't think of me in that way." She met his eyes, hoping the pain she felt at the mere mention of Simon's name wasn't displayed on her face.

   "Oh, Lily." He chuckled. "That is where you are wrong." He raised one finger to trail it across her cheekbone. "He would have to be an imbecile
not
to feel that way for you."

   The finger that touched her cheek didn't alarm her, but it didn't ignite her, either. Not like Simon's touch. Why must she compare every man to Simon?

   Emory continued, "I have known Blackmoor for a very long time. And have never seen him act the way he does with you."

   "But he doesn't want to
marry
me," she said. Heat suffused her face as she realized what she'd almost revealed.

   "He would be a fool not to feel
that
way about you as well," Emory said quietly, his hand reaching to clasp her own.

   "Do you think I could bother you to get me some punch, Emory?" she asked hesitantly. She needed a moment to herself. Just a moment was all it would take to right her thoughts.

   "Certainly," he said as he rose. "I'll be back momentarily."

   She watched him until he was through the double doors. Then she rose and wandered further down the garden path. She slowly trailed her fingertips in the fountain. A breeze blew across her skin, lifting gooseflesh along her arms.

"You let him touch you."

   Lily spun quickly to find Simon standing in the shadows. His normally grey eyes had changed to black. His hair hung over his brow in disarray, as though he'd been running his hands through it.

   "What did you say?" Certainly she hadn't heard him correctly. "What are you doing here? Did you follow me?"

   He approached her, anguish in his eyes as he cupped her face. He repeated, "You let
him
touch you."

   "He was just being friendly, Simon." She shook her head to throw off the hand that held her cheek, but he refused to let her go.

   "He
wasn't
being friendly, Lily. He wanted you, just like every other man here." He looked down at her
décolletage
and then brushed his fingertips along her shoulder. She shivered. This wasn't fair.
He
was what she wanted more than anything.

   "I think you've had too much punch, Simon," she snapped. Then she could say no more because the air whooshed from her lungs when he pulled her to himself, hard and fast.

   "I have had a bit," he said quietly against her lips. "But now I plan to have a bit more."

   That was when she realized he wasn't talking about punch.

   When he'd seen Emory approach her, it had been all he could do not to bellow across the dance floor. It took all of his strength to stop himself from crossing the room and tearing Emory limb from limb. He could imagine himself flinging small pieces of the man into the fronds of the plants. He hoped a piece wouldn't land in the punch bowl. That would be quite improper.